


la culpabilité des survivants

by ellispage21



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-05 06:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispage21/pseuds/ellispage21
Summary: grantaire has seen too many therapists for John/not-John to even matter at this point. two months have passed, and all he really wants to do is listen to Enjolras' voicemail as many times as he can before his phone dies.- grantaire survived, his friends didn't (sort of) -





	1. I was drunk with the TV on

_“Hi, you’ve reached Enjolras. Before you leave a message, think to yourself: is this textable? If yes, hang up now. If no, there will be a beep soon, that’s your cue. Please do think about it carefully, my voicemail capacity is low. Thanks.”_

“Grantaire?”

He looked up, his phone still pressed to his ear. Sighing, he hung up, “that’s me I’m afraid.” He was met with a friendly smile, “if you need to take a call, you can have a few minutes.”

Grantaire shook his head, “It’s fine. I’ll call him back later.”

“Alright,” the doctor smoothed down his jacket pocket, “in that case, if you’d like to follow me to my office.”

 

“I understand that this is not your first therapy session, correct?”

Grantaire laughed, “you’re the tenth person I’ve seen about… all this.” He shifted slightly in the rolling chair.

“And no progress has been made?”

He laughed again, and brought one leg over the other, “Doc, if it had, do you think I’d have seen nine other psychiatrists?”

“I suppose not,” the man smiled, and began to type on his computer. Grantaire took in the room around him. The walls were a sage colour, with hardwood floors. There was a window to the right of the doctor’s desk, which was facing diagonally away from the wall. Another window was opposite the door. It was raining. His chair was quite comfortable, with wheels and a frayed cushion. Certificates adorned the wall in front of him, documenting the success of this particular therapist. Grantaire hadn’t learnt his name yet, he was pretty sure that he would be on to the eleventh soon anyway, so what would be the point in formalities?

The sound of a throat being cleared drew his attention back to the desk, “is that alright with you?”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, “is what alright with me?”

The therapist offered him a reassuring smile, “if I read you what I have been sent. About your condition.”

“Oh yeah, yeah,” he waved his hand, “go for it.”

The man stretched back in his chair, one hand using the mouse to scroll through the pages. Grantaire noticed that there were a lot of them. A small part of him felt weird.

“On and off various medications for depression since the age of nineteen, now twenty-three and… no longer using medication,” he looked up, and Grantaire nodded for him to continue, “recently experienced severe trauma, which is why you’re here today, as well as thoughts of self-harm, and some issues regarding alcohol addiction.”

“And cocaine.”

“And… cocaine.” He said, typing slowly, “Right. Happy that I’ve got everything?”

Grantaire shrugged, “yeah. Suppose so.”

“Fantastic,” the therapist flicked quickly to another page and scanned through it, while Grantaire took a long sip of his water. It didn’t taste great. “so, what I’d like to do now, if it’s okay with you, is for you to talk a little bit about your morning.”

“My morning?” Grantaire asked, a frown tugging on his eyebrows, “not about the trauma, or the drugs, or—”

“What we don’t want to do,” he said, one hand in the air, “is to unpack those things if we cannot pack them back up. I don’t want you to leave here today with all of that weight.”

Grantaire fought hard not to roll his eyes. “Alright. My morning.”

The therapist nodded encouragingly and drank some of his coffee.

“I uhh woke up at like.. 10, I think. Then I had a shower. Maybe I ate breakfast. I don’t really remember. Then I came here.”

“And you called your friend.”

“What?”

“Your friend,” he said helpfully, “when you were in the waiting room. You were calling a friend.”

“Oh,” Grantaire didn’t have the heart to tell him, “yeah. I did that, too.”

“Sounds like a relaxing morning.”

He hummed, and started to untie his shoe laces, “guess so.”

“What are your plans for this afternoon?”

Grantaire raised his gaze, making eye contact with his doctor. He was middle-aged, round glasses and a kind face. His hair was greying and receding at the sides. On his desk was a picture of two teenagers. _His kids_ , he thought.

“Why are you asking me these questions?” He sounded ruder than he had intended, “I came here to tell you about my shitty life, not whether or not I’ll be doing a fucking crossword after lunch.”

The doctor, who Grantaire imagined was called John, crossed his arms, and leant back into his seat, “So no plans, I take it?”

From out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire watched Éponine put her feet up on the coffee table, and begin to file her nails, “he’s onto you,” she said.

Grantaire stood up suddenly and ripped his bag off the back of his chair. “Yeah, this isn’t going to work.”

John (or not-John) didn’t seem as though he intended on stopping him, so he slammed the door on his way out.

“What a dickhead.” He mumbled to himself as he jogged down the steps onto the busy street.

 

Upon his arrival back at his flat, he found Courfeyrac waiting for him.

“How was therapy?” he asked from the sofa, his hand jammed into a Pringles can.

“Yeah.” Grantaire called from the corridor, lightly kicking his bedroom door open to throw his bag inside, before entering the kitchen to grab a water bottle from the fridge.

“Cool. Hungry?”

“Nope.”

Courfeyrac stood up and moved to the breakfast bar in the kitchen, “you should eat though.”

“Not right now.”

“Then when?”

Grantaire swivelled to face him, holding his head in exasperation, “I don’t know, Courf. I need to sleep.”

“Well,” he placed one hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, “you can sleep after you’ve eaten. You didn’t have breakfast this morning.”

Grantaire took this in, then put his head in the crook of his arms, “alright. Fine. Just.. stop going on about it. Also stop eating my Pringles.”

“I didn’t.” Courfeyrac laughed, “Can’t eat. I was just bored.”

Grantaire grunted and got some cheese and bread out.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac continued as he walked back into the living room, “Bahorel is here, by the way.”

“Brilliant.” Grantaire muttered. He heard shuffling feet behind him, and rubbed his forehead with the back of his left hand.

As he opened the cutlery drawer to get a knife, Bahorel mused, “what if…”

“Alright Edgelord, I get it, what if I slit my wrists and died, I know. But I’m trying to make a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Bahorel put his hands up, “whatever you say, dude.”

Grantaire spun on his heels to face him, “listen. I went to therapy today, and it was really shit. So, I’d appreciate it if for _one day_ you could stop trying to get me to… you know. Just one day.”

“Enjoy your sandwich.” He grumbled, “Don’t expect to see me for a while.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and waved sarcastically before focussing back on the grill.

 

Sinking down on the sofa with his plate, he flicked through the channels on the television. He settled on the news, as a documentary about medieval art was on afterwards, and began to pick through his food.

“What’re you watching?”

He jumped, almost dropping his sandwich, and sighed when he saw Courfeyrac behind him.

“I thought you had left,” he said, moving along so he could sit down, “you scared me half to...”

“Death?” Courfeyrac teased, laughing to himself as he sat, “ironic, really. What’s this?” He nodded at the television.

“The news. There’s a cool documentary on after that I want to watch. You can watch it too, if you promise not to talk the whole time.”

Courfeyrac grimaced and shook his head, “It’s fine, after the news I’ll be off.”

The familiar face of the local newsreader flashed onto the screen, talking about a political crisis in a country that Grantaire had never heard of. Courfeyrac started to get restless, fidgeting, and annoying him. Just as he was about to say something, his attention was caught by what she was saying.

“…two months later. But has anything really changed? We go to our University Correspondent, Lewis Hathrow, joining us now from the scene. Lewis?”

“Thanks, Michelle. Well, as you can see, behind me are the remains of the now infamous protest, where just two short months ago, seven students—"

Grantaire turned it off and tried very hard to control his breathing. The words were swimming inside his head, and Courfeyrac sounded suddenly far away.

“Grantaire?”

“I’m fine, I’m alright.” He said, to himself more than anyone else, “I’m going to bed.”

“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac repeated, “wait one minu—”

A knock at the door interrupted them both, and Grantaire put his plate on the table in front of him, steadied himself and shot a glance at his friend. Courfeyrac nodded at him to answer it and rested one arm over the back of the sofa.

 

“Hello, sorry for coming over unannounced. Are you busy? I was just wondering how you are. I tried to call but… well, you didn’t answer. So, here I am.”

Grantaire stared at Marius, at the still-healing grazes on his cheek, at the cast on his broken arm, on the bandage creeping out from underneath his shirt.

“Yep.” Grantaire managed, “I’m fine. Good. Very good.”

“Do you have company?” Marius asked politely, looking into Grantaire’s living room.

“No,” he replied, but shut the door ever-so-slightly anyway, “nope. Just me.”

“Oh, I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

“The TV.” He said, gesturing to it, and then realising it was off. He cursed inwardly. “Anyway,” he kept on, “there’s a documentary I want to watch so…”

“Right. Of course.” Marius nodded solemnly, and smiled, “if you ever need anything let me know.”

Grantaire returned the smile, albeit small, and closed the door before Marius could say anything else. He listened for his footsteps leading away from his flat and closed his eyes.

“Are you still here or have you gone?”

When he was met with silence, he breathed out slowly, moved his half-eaten sandwich to the kitchen, and went to brush his teeth before bed.

 

 

He spat the toothpaste into the sink, feeling the cold enamel bite into his forearms as he rested his weight on them, his head pressed against the mirror. He watched as the tap water swirled it all away and pushed himself gently back to standing upright. The red toothbrush rattled as he placed his own beside it in the cup, and he wiped his mouth on the grey towel on the radiator.

On the short walk to his bedroom, he unlocked his phone (and made a mental note to charge it, at some point) and tapped on Enjolras’ contact.

_“Hi, you’ve reached Enjolras. Before you leave a message, think to yourself: is this textable? If yes, hang up now. If no, there will be a beep soon, that’s your cue. Please do think about it carefully, my voicemail capacity is low. Thanks.”_

He nudged the door open with his hip, and smiled, “hello.”

“Hello,” Enjolras didn’t look up from his book, “how was therapy today?”

Grantaire shrugged, and plugged his phone in to charge, “I don’t know. Fine.”

“That’s not what Éponine told me.”

He chuckled, “all he wanted to know about were my plans for the day. I don’t think he’s the one.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, putting his book on the bedside table, “will you go for at least one more session?”

Sensing Grantaire about to argue, he pouted, “please? For me?”

Grantaire smiled softly, and put one arm around his shoulders, drawing him into a hug, “okay. One more.”

Enjolras nodded, his hair tickling under Grantaire’s chin, “tomorrow.” He whispered.

“Thursday.”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’m busy tomorrow.”

He looked up, “no you’re not.”

“Maybe I’ll find something to do. You know, Marius came by earlier. Maybe I’ll ask him to get lunch.”

Enjolras snorted, “sure.” Grantaire laughed, “yeah, okay. That was a bit far. But I might go for a walk.”

He watched as Enjolras reached over to turn the lamp off, and the room went dark.

“Perfect,” Enjolras said quietly, “you can go for a walk after your therapy appointment.”

Grantaire was ready to retort, but then heard Enjolras’ breathing slow, and decided against it.

“Alright. Tomorrow then.”

Enjolras mumbled something incoherent, and Grantaire bit back a smile. He kissed his head lightly and pulled the blanket up to his chest, feeling the warmth of Enjolras breathing against his jaw.

 

When he woke up, the room was stark and bare. The other side of his bed was empty, covers still tightly made from months ago. He blinked a few times to adjust to the light, then buried his head into the pillow and groaned. At the third screech of the alarm, he dragged himself out of bed to his wardrobe and blindly threw on some clothes.

 

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” John/not-John smiled, as Grantaire sat himself heavily in the empty chair.

“I wasn’t planning on coming back, but someone told me to.”

John/not-John nodded, “they must know what’s good for you.”

Grantaire laughed and agreed, “yeah, they certainly think so.”


	2. bombs were dropped behind victory songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: drug use, maybe mental illness slur???? idk, character death.

“So,” John/not-John began, “I understand that the way I work doesn’t fit with you. And that’s okay. What we need to do now is to figure out how to help you, in a way that ensures you feel comfortable, safe, and able to express yourself.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s up.” Grantaire nodded, kicking his legs up to rest on the desk in front of him.

“You know,” John/not-John leant forward to move his coffee away from Grantaire’s shoes, “my colleague said that you knew her son, Mathieu Bossuet.”

Grantaire froze, and it felt as though all of the air in the room had been removed. John/not-John was still talking, but all Grantaire could hear was fuzzy white noise.

“I—I, yes, Bos—yes. I… I knew him.” He garbled, trying to focus his vision but failing. John/not-John swam in front of him, the green of his jumper blending into the wall behind him.

“I take it you were once a student?”

He swallowed thickly, and nodded again, “history of art.” He said weakly. John/not-John tapped on his keyboard momentarily, and then turned to face him.

“Would you like to talk a little bit about that day?”

Grantaire’s heart started to hammer in his chest, “you don’t have to,” he heard from somewhere, but then somehow managed to stutter out, “ye-yes. I would.”

John/not-John reached to tug one of the curtains closed, and the room felt too small. Grantaire pulled both of his legs up to tuck his knees under his chin, a nearly impossible feat on the battered chair he was sitting on.

“When you’re ready. You can stop whenever you want. This is about _you._ ”

He closed his eyes and concentrated on organising his thoughts into coherent sentences.

“We were planning it for months. Well, they were. I wasn’t that involved. And then… and then after all that time of planning, it got to that day and we… they were all overexcited. I hadn’t done my term paper, and I—I needed to get it done. It was due the next day, and I had procrastinated too much and then.. Enjolras was so angry at me. He said I should have organised myself better. I went to the library to finish it, and everything happened so fast.”

He paused for a second to catch his breath and steady his shaking hands. John/not-John was watching him, a calming and reassuring look in his eyes.

“Someone had a gun. I don’t know who it was, or where they got it, but then the alarm went off and security was everywhere. I was in the library, I wasn’t even there. I was just in the library trying to finish my essay. Everything went so wrong, and Enjolras was really annoyed with me, and then that’s when it happened.”

“When what happened?” he pushed gently, making some notes as Grantaire spoke.

“That’s when they got shot.” Grantaire’s voice cracked, “Security must have thought they would shoot, or something like that, I don’t know. We were all being taken to the sports field, and then everyone was running and shouting, and my friends, they—they were just on the ground and I should have been there, and then Enjolras, he picked up that fucking gun, and I think he was going to throw it or move it or whatever, but they didn’t know that, and they shot him so many times. I should have been there with them, but I needed to finish my essay. It was due the next day and I… I just really needed to finish it.”

“And did you finish it?”

Grantaire shook his head, “I didn’t get time to log in before the alarm went off. I think I only just sat down. Enjolras was so angry.”

“Enjolras,” John/not-John repeated, “is he the blond? The one on the news?”

He nodded, “He was an insufferable bastard sometimes. But he was my boyfriend.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” John/not-John said, reaching across to hand him some tissues. He wasn’t aware that he had been crying. “Grief is a complex and difficult set of emotions.”

“I always think—” Grantaire stopped to allow himself to gasp in a breath, “that maybe I could have stopped it. Have stopped them from being shot. I don’t know who gave them that gun, but I could have taken it, and Enjolras would have pulled my hair out and screamed at me, but he—they wouldn’t be dead then, would they? But I didn’t. I can’t now.”

A wave of nausea hit him all of a sudden, and he stumbled to his feet, “look, I really—I really, really need to go. I’m sorry, I—I just need to go. Right now.”

 

 

The cold air hit him as he yanked open the door and slumped backwards against the wall. He bent his head down onto his knees and clasped his hands together on top of his hair.

“Hey, you alright?” A voice asked from in front of him, and he nodded without looking up. The voice got closer, “are you sure? I can call somebody to come and get you if you want.”

His “I’m fine” was muffled somewhat by the kneecaps pressed against his face, and he felt a hand tentatively rubbing his back, “we all have these days, buddy. Hope you feel better soon.”

 

 

Grantaire wasn’t sure how long the walk back to his flat was, but by the time he got there, he was almost relieved to see Bahorel in his bathroom.

“I thought you weren’t coming back for a while.” He said, pushing past him to splash some water on his face.

“And I thought you were done having breakdowns in public, but here we are.” Bahorel retorted, opening the door to follow him into the living room.

“So.”

“So.. am I going to suggest it, or are you?”

“Suggest what?”

Bahorel rolled his eyes and gave a cocky laugh, “you know what.” He glanced at the table holding up the TV, and Grantaire knew instantly what he meant.

“I don’t know. Enjolras would be annoyed if I did that.”

“Enjolras isn’t here.” He pointed out, somehow already crouching by the drawer, “so…”

Grantaire sat down on the floor, his arms supporting him from behind, and tilted his head to the side. “Yeah.” He said eventually, “yeah, alright. But I’m not going crazy. Ok?”

Bahorel laughed again but nodded. “If you say so. Do you have a card?”

Grantaire jumbled through his pocket to fish out his wallet and threw it to him. “Don’t use the credit card. I need to actually keep that one.”

 

About an hour later (he thinks), he’s in the kitchen laughing at nothing. Everything is colourful and loud, and he feels so warm. He’s not sure where Bahorel went. Or when.

“Grantaire?”

He turned around slowly, and then smiled, reaching out his hand.

“Hey, you.”                                                                             

“Don’t touch me.” Enjolras snapped, “what’s this?”

He held up a bag of white powder in front of Grantaire’s face.

“Would you believe me if I said it was sugar?”

Enjolras’ eyes blazed with anger and he shoved Grantaire hard into the kitchen counter. The toaster popped up, and Grantaire caught it without looking, raising his eyebrows “impressed?”

“What is that?” He repeated, arms crossed in front of him, his hair falling into his face.

“Dinner.” Grantaire replied, beginning to eat his sixth consecutive Pop Tart. Enjolras growled.

“I meant _that_.”

“Ohhh.” Grantaire chewed thoughtfully, “yeah, no, that’s coke.”

“Grantaire, we talked about this!” He shouted, unable to mask his disappointment.

“That was before.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Enjolras was exasperated, “You have to take care of yourself. Do you know how many people died so you can use this? There’s so much blood in this industry, and I—”

“Look, babe, listen to me yeah,” Grantaire’s knees wobbled a bit, “Bahorel came around, and he—”

“Bahorel is dead. He didn’t come around.”

Grantaire put his Pop Tart down, “you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” Enjolras was furious, “we are all dead. All of us. You can only talk to us because we are in your imagination. You’re fucking crazy.”

With that, he stormed out of the kitchen, shutting the door with a thud that echoed around Grantaire’s head for longer than it should have.

Trudging back to the living room, he found Courfeyrac on his sofa again.

“Hey,” he offered, but Grantaire didn’t seem in the mood to talk, “so that was wild, huh.”

Grantaire nodded and knelt on the carpet. He couldn’t really see the sofa, or the walls, or even Courfeyrac for that matter, but he definitely knew where the floor was.

“Enj said I’m crazy,” he said, too loud but not realising, “because you’re all dead but I still talk to you.”

“Oh, that’s really sad.” Courfeyrac mused, and leant over to pat his back, “Alexa, play “Every Time We Touch”.

“Good choice.”

“She’s my go-to.” He smiled, “and just so you know.. I don’t think you’re crazy.”

Grantaire sighed heavily, and leant backwards against the arm of the sofa, “when I was younger I was strong, with big dreams, and a big heart. But then something went wrong somewhere, and now I need to restart. I need to start again so I can be new.”

“That little boy is still in there,” Courfeyrac pointed to his chest, “right here. He’s just a bit busy right now.”

Grantaire nodded, the back of his head buzzing in that all-too-familiar way, “Maybe God gave me depression because He knew I would have beaten Him in hand-to-hand combat by the age of sixteen had I been left unchecked.”

Courfeyrac laughed, and pulled him into a hug, “That’s probably why, yes.”

 

 

The next thing he knew, Grantaire was in bed with the bedside lamp on, covers tucked up to his armpits, his clothes folded neatly on the floor. He rolled over, groaning at the thumping in his forehead, and rubbed his eyes. The sheets next to him were unbearably tight in the way that Enjolras would always tuck them in, and he didn’t have the energy to pull them loose. Lifting a hand to his nose, he felt a trickle of blood running down his lip and whined in annoyance.

“How do you feel?”

His eyes shot open, and he saw Joly sat at the foot of his bed. He knew he was in for it.

“I’ve felt better,” he admitted with the ghost of a half-smile, “did Enjolras send you?”

Joly ignored him, “You’ve been sober for a while. Your body can’t handle the same amount that you were doing before. I don’t know how much you’ve taken, but anything more than a gram and you’re going to feel like hell for a few days at least.”

“I think Bahorel did… maybe a third? And I did maybe a quarter.”

“So, you did half a bag of cocaine. Christ, R.”

“ _We_ did half a bag.”

Joly looked at him with an expression that he couldn’t recognise, and he was quiet.

“Oh.” He said, realising, “yeah. I did half a bag. Shit.”

“It’s alright,” Joly feigns a smile, “I’ll take care of you.”

Grantaire felt suddenly sleepy, and flopped back down onto the pillows, “I’m going to sleep for a bit.”

“Okay,” Joly patted his leg through the duvet, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Cool.” Grantaire mumbled and closed his eyes.

 

He wasn’t sure if it was a dream, but from very, very far away, he heard Enjolras tell him he was going to be there, too.


	3. and you were gone but i'm still here

“Good morning.”

Grantaire groaned and pushed his face further into his striped pillow. The space between his eyebrows was throbbing, and he could hear the blood swooshing in his ears when he swallowed. When he opened his right eye, he saw that the orange light of the streetlamp outside his window was still on.

“What time is it?” he grumbled and tried to become one with the mattress.

“It’s five o’clock. Time for you to wake up.”

Despite his headache, he scoffed. “Yeah, right. Come back in like, seven hours, then we’ll talk.”

He felt a cold hand on his shoulder, and the blankets were torn off his back. He whimpered at the sudden lack of comforting heat.

“I said it’s time for you to wake up. I won’t tell you again.” Enjolras’ voice was stern, and unfortunately for him, Grantaire knew not to ignore him.

Sliding both of his hands underneath his chest, he pushed himself upwards, now able to see Enjolras standing by his bed, arms crossed in irritation.

“Is there any reason for this frankly disgustingly early wakeup call?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, “it’s called self-care, idiot. You have to learn about it. I’m not going to let you wallow in your own self-pity and hatred. Get up. You’re going for a run.”

“Like hell I am.”

Enjolras appeared to procure some black jogging bottoms and a grey t-shirt from nowhere and dropped them into Grantaire’s lap.

“Put these on. I’ll see you by the front door in five minutes.”

He was out of the room before Grantaire could react.

 

 

 

As Grantaire zipped up his windbreaker jacket, he continued to moan and complain about how ironic it was that Enjolras was enforcing the removal of his human rights, and how he would never _ever_ do drugs again or drink anything other than water if it meant that he could stay in bed. Enjolras, in true Enjolras fashion, ignored him from the minute they stepped into the lift until they reached the pavement outside.

“You’ve got around forty minutes to run to the train station and back again.”

“The train station?” Grantaire gawped, “that’s almost two miles one way.”

Enjolras nodded, uninterested, “after that you need to take a shower, get dressed in something other than a flannel shirt and navy Converse, eat breakfast, and then you have an appointment at the addiction clinic.”

“There is no way I can run four miles in forty minutes. A mile every ten minutes? That’s impossible.”

Enjolras lifted his wrist and studied his watch momentarily, “you may start now. I’ll be here waiting when you come back.”

 

 

After six minutes, Grantaire was convinced that this was all a part of Bahorel’s plan to make him kill himself, so he could be reunited with his friends, wherever they were. The sound of his trainers thudding on the damp pavement mirrored the one in his head, and his legs were starting to get uncomfortably wet from the puddles’ splash back. His chest was starting to tighten, and he didn’t really know what to do with his arms, so they remained clenched at his sides. He was sure he looked ridiculous.

Twenty-two minutes later, he didn’t care that he looked stupid, because he was definitely on his way out and he was fully accepting of his impending demise. His curly fringe was stuck to his forehead with sweat that felt like glue, and he had over a mile to go, with only twelve minutes left. He sucked in a shallow breath and tried to run a little faster, but his legs didn’t seem to be working. He was going to be late for sure.

 

 

“You’re nine minutes and thirty-four seconds behind schedule.” Enjolras helpfully informed him upon his arrival back at the bench next to the entrance of his building.

“I got a little side-tracked by trying not to die.” He muttered, wiping his dirty shoes on the welcome mat, and pushing open the door.

“I’ll have to try it sometime.” Enjolras replied under his breath, and Grantaire spun to face him.

“Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands, “comedic timing was never my strong point.”

“Apparently neither was not being a twat.” Grantaire grumbled, pressing the button for the lift.

“Yet you loved me all the same.” Enjolras teased, leaning into his shoulder, “oh, you smell really gross. You should take a shower. Stat.”

 

 

Enjolras was appalled at the state of Grantaire’s wardrobe. A little over four months ago, it had been full of graphic band t-shirts, ripped skinny jeans, dark jumpers, denim jackets – all the things that made Grantaire… well, him. But now it consisted entirely of no less than eleven (11) flannel shirts, one very dusty dress shirt that he supposed was a gift from a relative, various mismatching articles of loungewear, and some old hoodies.

“I’m sorry,” he said in disgust as he pulled out one of the bent metal hangers, “are these _bootcut_?”

Grantaire laughed, and gave him a shrug, “they’re comfortable. Marius wears them.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, “yes, of course he does. My point proven.”

“I don’t know what you’ve got against my fashion taste.”

“You own _eleven_ flannels.”

Grantaire laughed again, “it’s gay culture.”

“It’s heterosexual appropriation, and I won’t stand for it.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire raised his eyebrows, “this is coming from the guy that exclusively wore fleece for the entire first year of university, and you want to say _I_ dress like I’m straight?”

Enjolras pouted, “you know I get cold easily.”

“And you know that I have an ass that just won’t quit, regardless of the jeans it’s encapsulated within.”

Enjolras hit him with the rolled-up jeans, “please get rid of them. Your appointment is at quarter to nine, and you haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

 

 

“You never usually stay this long.” Grantaire observed whilst munching on his second slice of toast. Enjolras looked up from his empty plate (he didn’t eat but refused to be left out), “what do you mean?”

“Well,” Grantaire took another bite and talked through chewing, “normally I call you a few times, and then we go to bed, don’t we? But today you’ve been here since I woke up. I don’t know. It’s nice.”

Enjolras twisted his fingers, “I wish I could stay for longer, but you know.. it’s—well, you know what I mean. It’s difficult with…” he gestured at the air, “you know. Everything.”

Grantaire nodded and wiped the crumbs off his hands, “yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it.” He stood up and brushed even more crumbs off his trousers. Enjolras had picked out what he was wearing: black jeans, black Converse (a compromise) and a marled grey Nike hoodie.

“So,” he said, leaning over to kiss the top of Enjolras’ head, “I have a bit of spare time before I need to leave. We could do something if you’d like.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow sceptically, “such as?”

Grantaire winked, “I think you know.”

 

 

Seven minutes later, they were crammed on the same sofa, Grantaire’s hand in a bag of crisps, arguing over which personality quiz to do next.

“As a chaotic good, sanguine Gemini, I think it’s genuinely imperative that we listen to my opinions before we listen to yours, a lowly Taurus.” Enjolras said seriously, his finger glued to the laptop trackpad.

Grantaire recoiled, “excuse me? I’m an enfp who was born in the year of the dog, I need to pick an outfit to reveal which obscure German town I should live in.” He pushed Enjolras’ hand down onto the quiz, and Enjolras kicked him in the shin.

“You’re a dick.”

Grantaire hummed in agreement, “you’re threatened by my zodiac powers.”

Enjolras laughed, and swatted his hand, “yeah, you’re _so_ threatening.”

“I actually am. I’m a triple threat.”

“Hm?”

He smirked, “co-dependent, clingy, and constantly upset.”

Enjolras pushed him again, and almost knocked the laptop out of his lap, “and a dick.”

“That too.”

 

 

“Would you say that your habits have gotten worse in the past three months, or remained the same?”

Grantaire scratched his head. The bright whiteness of the office was beginning to hurt his tired eyes.

“Uh, yeah. Worse, I guess. I don’t know.”

The doctor scribbled something on his notepad and turned the page.

“And in your opinion, are you dependent on your drug use?”

He nodded, and the doctor ticked a box. He felt very uncomfortable.

“Look, sometimes I get really sad and take a shit load of cocaine. Sometimes I don’t. That’s all I know.” He shrugged, “Take from that what you will.”

His doctor nodded and appeared to note this down, then set his papers down on his crossed knee.

“I think it would be acceptable to diagnose you with moderate substance abuse issues. You’re clearly quite high-functioning, in that you made an appointment, but you do need support. We can give you that.”

 

 

Enjolras pounced when Grantaire stumbled through the door, arms laden with self-help guides and appointment reminder cards.

“Tell me everything!”

Grantaire pulled off his hoodie and yanked down his white t-shirt, “Hi, Courf.”

Courfeyrac appeared from the doorway, and strode over, “Hey dude. How was rehab?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, “it’s not _rehab,_ it’s a support centre for people struggling with substance problems.”

“Babe,” Grantaire laughed, “that’s rehab.” He turned to Courfeyrac, “yeah, it was fine. I have to go every Saturday morning.”

“And what was your doctor like? Have you made any new friends?” Enjolras could hardly contain the excitement in his voice, “are there any meetings? Oh!” he clapped, “If there are you could make posters to attract new members!”

Courfeyrac and Grantaire shared a knowing look, and Grantaire excused himself to the kitchen. He could hear Enjolras yammering on about a substance abuse brunch club, and he put his head in his hands.

“He’s just happy that you’re getting help.” Courfeyrac said gently from behind him, “he really wants you to make new friends.”

“I don’t need any new friends.” Grantaire told him, his head still resting on the counter, “I have you guys.”

The air seemed to thicken, and Courfeyrac was silent for a moment.

“R..”

“No.” He shook his head, “I know. But not today, please. I woke up at five, and I’m exhausted.”

“You could do something like speed dating!” Enjolras squealed from the living room, interrupting them, “that’s what we did for our first meeting, isn’t it Courf? It works like… ten times out of nine.”

Courfeyrac laughed loudly and snapped his fingers, “yas, queen of improper fractions.”

Enjolras didn’t appear to hear him, or perhaps just ignored it, “Saturday is only two days away. Oh my God. We have so much to do. To prepare. I better get started right away.”

It fell quiet, and Grantaire lifted his head to say something, to make a joke about Enjolras incessant need to be in charge of everything, but when he did he found that his kitchen was empty.

 

 

It was only just past lunchtime, but he found himself crawling into bed, still fully dressed. His phone buzzed from the bedside table, and he saw that he had three missed calls from Marius. Sighing, he managed to unlock it on his second attempt and hit the ‘call back’ button.

“Hello, Grantaire!” Marius almost shouted before it had even properly rung.

“Hi,” he winced, “I have some missed calls from you.”

“Yes,” He could basically hear Marius smiling through the phone, and rolled his eyes, “just checking how you are. I saw a book in the library, well Cosette saw it first but then I did, and it reminded me of you. It was called ‘Unbroken Brain’, it’s about recovery. Cool, right? I thought you might like it so I checked it out for you. If you want, I can drop it off later. Or you can come to mine. Do you know my address? It’s—”

“Marius.” Grantaire said sharply, “stop talking.”

“Oh. Sorry, I… I didn’t mean to offend you. Sorry. Did I say something upsetting?”

“Marius,” he repeated, rubbing his temple with his free hand, “a book about a brain isn’t going to fix me. I know you think you’re helping but you’re not. I feel like I’m screaming at people to help me and nobody is listening. I can’t scream any louder.”

Marius was silent, and Grantaire thought briefly that perhaps he had hung up, before he heard a small “oh.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I appreciate your concern. I’ll call you next week. Maybe.”

“They were my friends, too.”

He frowned, “what?”

Marius continued, “I lost my friends too that day. I understand that you’re hurting, but so am I. You don’t need to be so mean.”

“Mar—”

“All I’ve done is try to help you. I’ve tried to make sure that you don’t go through this by yourself. I know you’re mourning because his life was your life’s best part, but I’ve done my very best to ensure you don’t do it alone. Sorry for bothering you.”

The click of the call ending was not something that Grantaire had expected, and he let the phone lie in his hands for a few minutes taking it in before he pressed on Enjolras’ contact.

“We are unable to connect your call. Check the number that you have dialled is correct and call back.”

He blinked at the screen, counting the bars of signal. They were all there. He pressed on it again, his nose scrunching slightly in confusion.

“We are unable to connect your call. Check the number that you have dialled is correct and call back.”

He felt sick, and his palms were sweating. Raking a hand through unkempt curls, he chewed his lip. The mailbox was full. He wasn’t able to leave one. More importantly, he wasn’t able to listen to Enjolras chastise him about leaving one. Bile rose in his throat and bubbled at the back of his mouth. He swallowed with a burning grimace and restarted his phone.

 

When the screen flickered white and turned on, he quickly thumbed through his contacts and selected Enjolras’ picture, before clicking ‘call contact’.

To his intrepid relief, it started to ring. Six, seven, eight times. He was finally about to hear Enjolras’ voice again.

“Sorry, the voicemail you are attempting to call is currently full. Please try again later.”

 

This time, he didn’t try to swallow the vomit when it came.


	4. i'm a mess, but no-one cared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: reference to previous drug use

“You’ve definitely looked better.”

Grantaire avoided Combeferre’s gaze, “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

He nodded and moved to sit on the side of Grantaire’s bed. It was nine in the morning, and he had spent the past day and a half in a grief-fuelled coke coma.

“Did it hurt?”

Combeferre frowned slightly behind the rims of his glasses, “did what hurt?”

Grantaire rubbed his eyes to get the sleep out, “when you got shot.” It sounded more abrupt than he meant.

“Oh,” said Combeferre, “yes. It did.”

“Does it still hurt?”

He nodded, “yes. And I think it always will.”

“What happened to you was wrong. It was without real reason. It didn’t make sense.”

Combeferre smiled sadly, “we had a gun.”

“One of you did.” Grantaire pointed out, “There was one gun, and seven of you. It makes no sense to shoot all of you for it. You didn’t deserve it.”

“It wasn’t fair,” he agreed, “but it’s done now. It happened.”

Grantaire thought about this, and then rolled over and pushed his face into the duvet. The smell of Enjolras faded long ago, but he could still pretend.

“You know things, right?” he said, albeit muffled.

Combeferre told him that yes, he did.

“So, tell me why you’re here. All of you. Why is this happening to me?”

He heard Combeferre sigh, and sort of wished he hadn’t mentioned it. The warmth of Combeferre against his leg shifted, and he felt pressure next to his head.

“I don’t know.” Combeferre admitted, patting Grantaire’s shoulder, “I wish I could tell you. But I don’t know.”

“You know, the first day, I acted like it didn’t happen. I had dinner and went to sleep. But then I woke up without Enjolras here. And Courfeyrac hadn’t texted me. And Jehan hadn’t set my alarms for the morning, and you weren’t waiting for me at the metro station. My world was completely empty, and now it’s not. I don’t know when it happened, but these days when I shout into the void, more and more voices keep answering me.”

He lifted his head up to breathe and saw that Combeferre was gone. He wanted desperately to cry, but no tears would come. No tears ever came anymore.

 

 

As he pulled on a dirty navy-blue t-shirt, he heard a knock on the door. He groaned, slid on his slippers, and shuffled to the foyer.

“What?” he asked, swinging open the door.

Cosette stood before him smiling, “hello,” she lifted up a basket, “I bought you some food.”

Before he could speak, she was in his living room, moving quickly towards the kitchen. He followed her, frowning.

“How did you—”

“I’ve got you fruit, vegetables, some bread, I wasn’t sure if you preferred white or wholemeal so there’s both,” she held up a bottle and rattled it, “also vitamins. You look very pale. Take one a day at breakfast.”

“This is really kind,” he walked over to her, and tried to stop her from pulling the contents from the basket, “but I don’t need this. I’m alright.”

She didn’t stop, “ready meals in case you’re not in the mood to cook, two cookery books in case you are.” She stretched up on her tiptoes, but was unable to reach the shelf above her, “could you…?”

He nodded, baffled, and put the books in a pile with his other, untouched, cookery books.

“Cos—”

“Multiple different juices because I don’t know what you like best. You’re not allergic to anything are you? Marius didn’t think so. I hope not,” she crumpled her brow, “that would be quite awful.”

He stood by her, watching on as she restocked his cupboard. It must have been very expensive.

“C—”

“Right,” she beamed, “all done.” She kissed his cheek, and rubbed his arm, “Take care of yourself.”

She was gone in a moment, and Grantaire was left standing half-dressed in his kitchen, still clutching a packet of quinoa that she had handed to him to put away.

 

 

His focus shifted from his phone map to the building in front of him, lifting one hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. The blinking arrow told him that he had, in fact, arrived, but the lobby was empty, and the door looked locked.

He refreshed the navigation system and squinted at the street name a few hundred metres away from him.

“Meth?”

He turned, confused, “sorry?”

“Meth or heroin? You look like you’re here for meth. No offense.”

The girl in front of him was no more than eighteen years old, with bleached blonde hair and a black eye. Most of her teeth were missing, and she smelt strongly of an alleyway.

Grantaire shook his head, “I’m not here to buy, I—”

The girl cut him off by laughing and spitting her chewing gum onto the floor by his foot. He tried not to appear revolted. She took his arm and pulled him inside, nudging the door open with her shoulder.

“We got a newbie.” She announced, kicking open a set of double doors. It was a small room with grey, scratchy carpet, a whiteboard, and a large square table. It was full bar three seats. Grantaire sat in an empty one and struggled to understand what had just happened.

A soft-spoken man smiled at him, and adjusted his glasses, “I’m Pete. I run these sessions. I see you’ve already met Jess.”

He nodded slowly and suddenly felt very small. Everyone was looking at him as though they expected something.

“Would you mind telling us something about you before we officially begin?” Pete asked gently, “your name, preferably, and maybe a fun fact. Anything you want.”

“Uh, yeah. Ok.” Grantaire mumbled, “I’m Grantaire, and… um..”

The silence that fell was deafening, and his face begin to burn. Pete raised his eyebrows and smiled again, mouthing ‘it’s okay’. He took a deep breath.

“I, uh, I have a tattoo that says queer on my lower lip.”

“You’re an icon.” A girl with braids laughs.

“A _bicon.”_ The boy next to her corrects, grinning at Grantaire, who can’t help but laugh with them. Something inside him stirs, and he feels glad that he came.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Jess asks, leaning forward to put both her feet on the table.

“Uh, y—I umm, no. No.”

She frowns and shrugs, “alright. Cool.”

The boy across the table from him studies him, and his face feels warm. He nods at him and turns his head to listen to Peter.

“Fantastic. So, this week, we are going to be talking about coping strategies. Distraction, communication. That sort of thing.”

 

 

“Hey,” someone stops him as he reaches for the door, and it’s opened for him, “Grantaire, right?”

He looks up, and it’s the boy from across the table.

“Yeah,” he smiles, “nice to meet you.”

They walk outside, and Grantaire pulls his jacket tighter to protect himself from the wind.

“I’m Will. Do you live near here?”

He shrugs, “not close but not too far.”

“I’ll walk you home, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.” Will’s smile was easy, and it made Grantaire smile back without thinking.

 

 

“Well, this is me.” Grantaire says, still laughing at one of Will’s previous jokes.

Will looked up at his apartment building in approval, “nice. You must have money.”

He snorted, “I didn’t buy it, it’s in my boyf—”

Will raised his eyebrows, “I thought you didn’t have one.”

“I.. I mean, it’s kind of complicated bec—because…”

“Are you single or not?”

Grantaire shrugged, “Uh, I guess.”

“Cool,” Will smirked, “so…”

Grantaire opened his mouth to repeat the ‘so’, but Will was quicker than him. His hands curled around the collar of Grantaire’s jacket and he felt his back connect with the wall.

“Wha—”

He was cut off by a kiss, and he fell apart. If he closed his eyes tight enough, it wasn’t Will anymore. It was blond curls and stubborn blue eyes and the perpetual scent of fresh sheets and raspberry lip balm.

Grantaire wasn’t sure exactly how long they were like that, but when it broke up he gasped in a long breath.

Will smirked, “so, I’ll see you next Saturday.”

Grantaire leant to rest the palms of his hands on his thighs, “okay.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Will waving and just shook his head.

He wasn’t sure why, but it felt nice. And he felt like shit.

 

 

Upon unlocking his front door, he knew something was off about the atmosphere in his flat.

“Hello?” he called, confused, and shaking off his jacket.

Turning to face the living room, he was met by a very stern Combeferre.

“Alright?” he greeted, but Combeferre squinted his eyes and tutted.

“We’re in here.”

“We?” Grantaire frowned, but Combeferre tugged on his sleeve and led him in.

Six faces stared back at him as he entered, and his knees went weak.

“Oh my god.” He said in disbelief, and rubbed his eyes, “It’s—you, I… Oh my god.”

“Sit.” Courfeyrac bit, and had Grantaire not been so shocked, perhaps he would have noticed. He sat on the empty sofa, his mouth hanging open.

“I can’t believe, I… am I asleep? Or...”

“Enjolras will be coming later.” Jehan told him, picking at their nails, “don’t expect fanfare.”

“I…” he couldn’t stop smiling, “you guys, I… what’s going on? Seriously I th—”

“Will’s nice,” Courfeyrac smirked sarcastically, “very nice, isn’t he?”

Grantaire went cold.

Combeferre nodded, “It’s nice to make new friends, right R?”

“It’s not, I—”

Bossuet met his stunned gaze, and shook his head, “that’s fucked up, mate.”

Jehan nodded in agreement, and even Joly looked disappointed. The only one who wasn’t meeting his eye was Bahorel. He was tucked up next to the arm of the sofa, and despite Grantaire’s pleading stare, he kept his own firmly planted on the floor, muttering in agreement with the others.

“You can’t be serious.” Grantaire managed, “I barely know him.”

Courfeyrac stood up. He was clearly enjoying his newfound leadership role, “then why did you kiss him?”

“Oh, come on.” Grantaire tugged at his hair in frustration, “it was a kiss!”

“Shall I let you in on a little secret?” Joly interrupted from behind him. He swivelled his head to look at him. “Since you’ve been unable to talk to Enj, all he’s done is follow you around. Did you know we can do that? We’re in here,” he tapped Grantaire forehead hard enough to hurt, and Grantaire winced, “we can be with you all day. That’s what he was doing. He didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened in realisation, “oh… shit.”

“Yeah, shit.” Joly agreed, pushing Grantaire’s arm off the back of the sofa, “shit indeed.”

He groaned and put his head in his hands, “I’ve fucked it.”

“Yep.” Courfeyrac quipped but was shushed by Jehan.

“I missed him so much.” Grantaire’s voice was muffled, “So, so much.”

“Weird way of showing it.” Bossuet mumbled, and nudged him in the knee, “He’s really upset. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Grantaire sighed loudly and scratched the side of his cheek, “fucking hell.”

 

 

Bossuet wasn’t exaggerating. Enjolras was teary-eyed before Grantaire even said anything, and as soon as he said his name, it was as though he collapsed in on himself.

His hair was a mess, curls drooping into his bloodshot eyes. There was spit around his mouth, and dry snot littered along his hand and up his sleeve.

Grantaire reached out, but he was smacked away. He could feel six pairs of eyes burning into his back, despite the reassurance of privacy.

He was sure that Enjolras was on the brink of suffocation as he watched him struggle to breathe.

“Why,” he whispered, his voice was hoarse, “did you act like you loved me if you didn’t?”

“Enj,” Grantaire was stunned, “I do love you. I love you more than anything, I…”

Enjolras shook his head and more tears began to fill his eyes, “no.”

“Yes.” He said, firm this time, “yes. If I didn’t love you, Enj..” he fought for the right words, “I—Enj, I would be dead. Everything I do, I think ‘Enjolras should be here’. I love you, don’t—”

“No.” Enjolras repeated, looking up to meet his gaze, “I saw what happened.”

“I’m fucking lonely!” Grantaire snapped and took a step towards him. Enjolras didn’t flinch.

“You have no fucking idea,” he continued angrily, “what it’s like to miss someone like I miss you. What it’s like to lose the love of your life. You don’t understand what these past months have been like for me. No fucking idea.”

He wiped the back of his mouth with his hand and Enjolras growled.

“And you think I’ve had it easy? Watching you cry, and suffer, and destroy yourself from the inside out? Do you think I’ve enjoyed that?”

“It’s not fucking real!” Grantaire shouted, shaking him hard, “you’re not real. You’re dead. I went to your fucking funeral, you’re dead and rotting in the ground.”

Enjolras recoiled as though he had been shot, a painful image for Grantaire to relive, and he realised what he had said.

“No, Enj,” he became desperate, his hands gripping the sides of Enjolras’ arms, who looked at him in wide-eyed horror, “listen to me. I’m sorry. Will is just some guy I met. I met him _today_ seriously. He’s nothing. I—Christ, Enj, I’m so touch-starved, and I miss you, I…”

Enjolras blinked and his eyes were still watery. Grantaire’s breathing was uneven. His hands trembled around his arms, and his vision blurred slightly.

“Wha—”

“I think we have to go now.” Combeferre told him gently, and Grantaire was unsure where exactly he appeared from.

“No, no, no, no. No. What do you mean?”

“I love you.” Enjolras murmured sadly, “I’m not angry. I’m just sad that I have to go. I’ve missed you.”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire said, more of a question than a statement, “Guys?”

Around him, everyone was blurring into one, and even scratching at his eyes didn’t help. His hands were no longer holding anything.

“Enjolras?” he asked one last time, “what’s happening? I love you.”

“I love you.” Enjolras said softly beside him, “You have to let go now.”

“No. What do you mean?” His voice became desperate, “please, tell me what’s going on.”

“Please let go.” Enjolras sounded further away now, “please. Let me go. You need to be at peace.”

“No, stay. What’s happening? I don’t understand. Courf? Joly?”

“They’re gone.” A hand touched his cheek, “Please let go. I’m so tired, R.”

Grantaire sank to his knees, his vision melting in front of him, “I don’t understand.”

He lifted his hands to his face, and heard Enjolras whisper something, he didn’t catch what it was.

“Wait, wait.” He begged, “wait, where have you gone?”

He was on his feet, stumbling around frantically, “where are you? Bahorel? Jehan?”

“No, no, no, no, no.” he repeated over and over again, “no, no. This isn’t happening. Oh my fucking god. Oh my god.”

He felt the doorframe with his fingers, and ran into the kitchen, unable to see clearly.

“Where is everyone? Oh my god.” His shirt was damp with sweat, “Enjolras? Please.”

His hip collided with the breakfast bar, and he stopped, holding on to it to stable himself until the pain subsided.

“Enjolras, please.” He croaked once more, “Oh my god, I ruined everything.”

“Grantaire?”

His heart thumped against his sternum, and he coughed out a sob. He hadn’t cried in so long, and it consumed him. He felt a warm arm around his shoulder, pulling him into an unknown chest. The scent was familiar.

“Marie, I’ve got him, we’re in the kitchen.”

Grantaire heard his mum’s shoes on the kitchen tiles, and another hand stroked his hair.

“Oh, my sweetheart,” she pressed a kiss to his forehead, “we’re here now. It’s okay.”

He buried his face into his dad’s shirt and wept.

“We’re going to take you home. It’s okay, you’ll be alright.” His dad’s voice sounded strange, as though he himself was choking up, and Grantaire screwed his eyes up into darkness.

 

 

While his mum packed a travel bag, Grantaire was carried to his parent’s car by his dad. A soft grey blanket was tucked around him, and he rested his head against the window. It was raining, and the water droplets refracted the streetlight into an orange glow on his face.

“Grantaire,” his dad began, adjusting his seat, “I’m so sorry, son. I’m so, so sorry. If we had known it was you… I—we would have come sooner. They didn’t say any names when we saw it on the news. I’m sorry. Your mother and I, we love you so much.”

Grantaire didn’t open his eyes, but nodded, “love you too.”

His dad was about to say something more, but the passenger car door was opened, and his mum stepped into the car.

“Oh, love,” she said, smiling sadly at Grantaire, and patting his leg, “let’s get you home.”

 

Grantaire didn’t have the energy to tell her that his heart was stone cold and buried six feet underground.


End file.
